


Imbalance of Power

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-08
Updated: 2008-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder's surrender to him had been absolute. Sylar had thought perhaps the victory would seem hollow, barely a conquest at all when Mohinder put up no resistance to Sylar's hands on his hips or his mouth on his neck. He had been wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imbalance of Power

A soft but insistent patter penetrates Sylar’s consciousness. It comes in quick, repetitive bursts separated by a pause that lingers in the air and the cycle concludes with Mohinder’s sigh, only to start again with the rapid _tap tap tap_ of his fingers on the keyboard. Now that Sylar is aware of the noise, sleep eludes him. He lets his eyes slide open. He registers the dimness of the room and the drawn curtains, thin and threadbare without the slightest glimmer of sunlight shining through. It’s early, he can tell, far too early for the late night that had gone before. The memories wash over him, enhanced by his power until he can recall Mohinder’s every gasp and plea, every twitch of his muscles. They had lain entwined and entangled together, stroking each other to orgasm and bemoaning their lack of precognition in failing to pack protection.

Hormones spark in his gut and his balls. His heart beats quicker and his blood pulses faster, plumping his morning erection hotter and harder against his thigh. Mohinder’s surrender to him had been absolute. Sylar had thought perhaps the victory would seem hollow, barely a conquest at all when Mohinder put up no resistance to Sylar’s hands on his hips or his mouth on his neck. He had been wrong. Mohinder hadn’t just capitulated to his advances. He had thrown himself headfirst into the melee of physical pleasure. Sylar recalled how Mohinder’s back had arched beneath him; his palms upturned in surrender as Sylar teased and caressed him. His flanks, his neck and his belly had lain exposed, inviting harm and damage that Sylar ached to inflict. He had found Mohinder’s wilful, misplaced trust and the certainty with which he thought he knew ‘Zane’ more erotic than the things Mohinder had done to him in return.

And what wicked things they were. Salivating, cock slick from Sylar’s mouth and dripping with arousal, Mohinder had rolled him over. He had fondled Sylar’s ass and pulled apart his cheeks, wetting his lips before kissing, sucking and nibbling at his hole. It should have been disgusting. Sylar should have pushed Mohinder aside and called him out for the sodomite and the Jezebel that he was. But instead, Sylar found that this was yet another sin he enjoyed committing. So he pushed backwards, thrust his ass into Mohinder’s face and felt him moan against his puckered flesh. The vibrations made Mohinder's lips buzz, jangling the nerves around his opening as Mohinder degraded and debased himself for Sylar’s pleasure. For Sylar’s pleasure but at Mohinder’s instigation. It had been a new and unexpected type of power. A power that weak, simpering Zane could yield, passive but with a heady rush that was no less intoxicating and the orgasm that chased on its heels, no less pleasurable.

Now, with the artificial glow from Mohinder’s laptop casting a pale light on his face, throwing his features into high relief and shrouding in shadows the crooks and crannies that made the landscape of his body so complex and satisfying to explore, Sylar wants to test the limits of this new found power. He wants to manipulate and master it as he had with Zane’s ability, as he planned to do with Dale’s when they finally reached Bozeman and he took it for his own. It’s a delicate power, with a fragile balance. Sylar can’t just push himself on Mohinder, he wants to bait and entice him for that was where the real thrill lay: in making Mohinder beg for him. So Sylar starts small, casting lures so innocent and awkward that Mohinder can’t help but be charmed.

Beside him, Mohinder is still typing and Sylar doubts he has even noticed that he had woken. He moans contentedly, stretching a little in the sheets and without exerting himself tilts his head to the side and presses his lips to the first part of Mohinder that he can reach. He kisses up Mohinder’s forearm, smiling as the muscles expand and contract. His radius and ulna twist beneath Sylar’s attentions. He continues to type, finishing his thought or sentence. Mohinder moans in appreciation as Sylar’s mouth travels up to his bicep, sucking on his skin to taste the salt of his sweat and inhale the scent of well worn pyjamas and freshly laundered sheets. When Sylar can explore no more of Mohinder’s body without moving his own, he lethargically reverses his course, kissing back down Mohinder’s arm. He pauses at the crook of Mohinder’s elbow. He licks at the crease on the joint and finding he likes the feel of the too soft skin beneath his tongue, shifts forward and presses closer. He nuzzles against Mohinder, his sour morning breath trapped between their bodies and the rough stubble on his jaw catching on the sparse hairs of Mohinder’s forearm. His eyelashes tickle Mohinder’s skin when he flutters his lids, moaning as Mohinder finally stops typing, bringing his free hand up to stroke his hair and face.

‘Morning,’ Sylar mumbles. He moves now, bringing himself closer and letting his arms snake loosely around Mohinder’s waist. He trails his fingers absently up and down Mohinder’s side, smirking to himself when Mohinder squirms, ticklish under his touch. He darts his eyes to the computer screen, recording in his eidetic memory the strings of numbers and the sequence of data, but already he can tell it is useless. Mohinder is without the tools he needs for a proper breakthrough and all that is chronicled on the screen are the results of his experiments on Zane.

‘What’s that?’ he asks, knowing full well the answer. A failure, an impasse, he thinks as Mohinder _ums_ and _ahs_ for the layman’s terms he thinks Zane needs. Little does he know how much Sylar comprehends. One capricious moment and Sylar could explain how the pieces fit together, lay it out before the poor doctor and save him from fumbling so blindly in the dark. It is another power and another advantage, one he isn’t sure he will ever share with Chandra’s son.

‘Another dead end.’ Sylar is surprised to hear Mohinder admit it. It lessens his hold when Mohinder is aware of his own shortcomings but he shakes off the shock, twisting the situation to his advantage.

‘Is that about me?’ he asks, inclining his head towards the screen. ‘About what we did last night?’

‘Mmm hmmm,’ Mohinder hums. He is still distracted, fiddling with the cursor on the screen as if trying to force a pattern that Sylar can easily see isn’t there. ‘Well,’ Mohinder continues with a chuckle, ‘not everything we did last night.’

Now it is Sylar who hums in satisfaction, pleased to see how naturally this comes to him, the simple power of manipulation. He rises up on his elbows and rewards Mohinder’s obedience with a kiss to the chest, flicking his tongue over Mohinder’s erect nipple, tracing around it with the tip of his tongue and rolling it between his lips. Mohinder’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug at the nape of his neck. He looks up to find Mohinder staring down on him. His pupils are starting to dilate and when Sylar playfully nips at his chest, Mohinder puts aside the laptop without another word.

Mohinder pushes at his shoulder and he rolls back to lie propped up against the pillows. Mohinder straddles his stomach, reaching back behind himself to caress Sylar’s thighs and hips below the sheets. He cups Sylar’s cock, smiling at the noises he pulls from him with the gentle drag of his fingers along his length. He swipes his thumb over Sylar’s tip. He isn’t wet, not yet, but it won’t be long under attention like this. Still, Mohinder brings his thumb up to his lips and sucks on it, moaning obscenely.

Maybe Mohinder understands this power too because Sylar can spot this for the show that it is, an illusion intended to arouse. He grins. It’s shark-like and predatory but that’s ok because Mohinder’s eyes have fallen shut, and his head is thrown back in a display so flagrant it is almost a farce. By the time Mohinder meets his gaze again, Sylar has rearranged his features into what he knows Mohinder wants to inspire: awe, desire and just a hint of fear. This time when Mohinder groans, grinding his heavy erection against Sylar’s ribs, it sounds more visceral and less artificial. Mohinder may have been indulging in this game for longer, but Sylar is undoubtedly the better player.

Mohinder is caressing his face, running his fingers over Sylar’s eyebrows and down his cheeks. He runs the pads of his fingertips along Sylar’s lips, sighing when Sylar parts his mouth and lets them dip inside. Mohinder rises on his knees, his cock standing tall and proud before Sylar’s eyes and to his surprise Mohinder grasps himself. Sylar starts to reach for him, thinking to bat his hand away and touch him how Mohinder obviously wants to be touched but he is a moment too late and he finds Mohinder tracing his lips with the head of his dick. It isn’t what he had expected and in his shock, Sylar lets it happen. He watches as Mohinder bites his lip, unable to stifle a groan of pure pleasure and, intrigued, Sylar reaches out to fondle his balls.

‘Zane!’ The cry is loud and startling, but not as startling as the sudden press of Mohinder’s cock between his lips. He opens his mouth to protest and Mohinder glides effortlessly in deeper until the head of his cock is resting hot and throbbing on Sylar’s tongue. Mohinder is babbling above him, begging and pleading for Zane to let him continue. Sylar finds himself riveted by the shameless need Mohinder displays and when Mohinder’s thumb comes up to massage the hinge of his jaw, he acquiesces, opening wider and letting him thrust.

Mohinder’s dick seems thicker and wider inside his mouth than it had been the night before. His thrusts are shallow, gentle but getting more wanton with every buck and rut that Sylar allows. Soon his nose will be crushed against Mohinder’s pelvic bone and the hand at his hair, stroking now, twisting the ends between his fingertips, will be painful and violent. And yet for all of that, with just his palms resting flat against Mohinder’s thighs and his jaw hanging loose and open, it is Sylar who has complete control. It he who will decide if Mohinder comes, when and how hard. Submissive and passive, his lips are growing swollen with the pull and push of Mohinder’s cock in and out, in and out. The roof of his mouth is feeling tender. One thrust too hard and the back of his throat will bruise. But one close of his teeth or a desperate push of his hands and it is Mohinder who will sprawl back against the mattress in pain, all the while apologising and crawling back to him.

It’s contradictory and counter-intuitive but in doing nothing, Sylar is letting Mohinder hang himself. His chest grows tight at the eroticism of this dance and he swallows sloppily, tongue, cock and jaw too much for one mouth to contain. He drools a little, flushing at his own inexperience but pleased to play the role of Zane so completely: the greater the deception, the more convincing the charade, the greater the pleasure when the truth is out.

It takes him by surprise when Mohinder wipes the spit from his chin, his hand cradling Sylar’s face before he can think to clean himself. He glances up, knowing his eyes are wide and his pupils shot wide with want. He finds Mohinder staring down at him, one hand clenched tightly on the headboard, his forehead resting on the wall. He hadn’t anticipated Mohinder’s rapt attention nor the solicitous way he seems to monitor Sylar’s enjoyment. He swallows again and this time Mohinder’s hand is there at once, stroking the front his throat to help him and brushing his mouth with the back of his fingers when some of the wetness still escapes. Mohinder knows the rules better than he has expected, and it fills him with a fire to push Mohinder further, to make him abandon what he knows is right and give in to what Sylar can tell he so desperately, shamefully, wants to do.

So he closes his lips tighter around Mohinder’s length. He doesn’t just let Mohinder slip in and out of the heat of his mouth, rocking his hips like gentle waves on a placid sea. He curls his tongue, arches it up and rubs it purposefully against Mohinder’s underside. Sylar sucks on him when he pulls out and bobs his head forward when he thrusts back in. Mohinder swears at the sudden change in pace. He cries out Zane’s name and the hand in his hair drops to scrabble at the skin of his shoulder, ghosting towards his neck but stopping short of forcing Sylar’s rhythm. Sylar’s lips are stretched too wide to smile so he moans to express his pleasure and Mohinder moans above him in reply. The hands on Mohinder’s thighs curve around his body and cup his ass instead, urging him on with kneading fingers.

It’s getting painful now but instead of slowing Mohinder down, Sylar squeezes his ass harder and swallows more rapidly. With every stroke, Mohinder’s taste is stronger in his mouth. It is bitter and salty, thick on the back of his tongue and Sylar breathes through his nose to suppress the desire to gag. Mohinder is fucking him now, not making love or being pleasured. It is primal and needy, and Sylar slurps his victory, his own cock throbbing at the basic parts he has broken Mohinder down to.

Again and again, Mohinder’s tip slips down his throat, bumping against him until he feels raw and tender. Mohinder’s legs are quivering and he can tell he is close to coming. Sylar glances up at him, takes in the sight of his half-open mouth and his eyes squeezed shut so tightly, and trails his fingers down his ass. The path he takes is slow and meandering, exploring the cleft of his ass and rubbing inquisitively over Mohinder’s entrance. Sylar pushes aside his own revulsion at what part of Mohinder he is touching and smothers the urge to recoil, to scrub his hands and forget what he has done. The effect of his touch is immediate. Mohinder’s balls jerk against his chin. He grimaces, his voice strangled and his body convulses, hot, bitter fluid coating Sylar’s throat and overflowing his mouth.

Sylar starts backwards. He hasn’t prepared himself for the rush of semen, seeming so different now, thicker, stickier and more unpleasant than when the selfsame fluid had graced his fist the night before. Mohinder holds his cock deep in Sylar’s throat and despite himself, Sylar finds he is pushing Mohinder away, choking and not wanting to swallow. Instantly, Mohinder draws back. His cock falls messily from Sylar’s mouth, leaving a damp and sticky trail on his cheek and neck. He sits back on Sylar’s chest, stroking his shoulder as he snatches a handful of tissue from the bedside table and holds it to Sylar’s mouth.

‘Shh, Zane. I’m sorry. It’s ok.’

Sylar spits into the proffered tissue, letting Mohinder wipe his lips and face. He starts to speak but he finds his voice is hoarse and his throat rubbed raw. Mohinder presses his fingers to Sylar’s mouth and a kiss to his cheek before sliding off the bed. He walks to the bathroom on unsteady legs, his limp cock glistening in the soft morning light. Mohinder returns with a glass of cool water and plays with Sylar’s hair as he watches him drink. Sylar gulps it down, sighing at the relief in his throat and the way the water washes Mohinder’s taste from his palate. He licks his lips, still sticky despite Mohinder’s careful attention and frowns at the renewed bitterness on the tip of his tongue. Mohinder laughs quietly, moaning Zane’s name, half teasingly and half in disbelief, as if every movement Sylar makes both pleases and surprises him. Mohinder lips are on his own and to his disgust, he watches as Mohinder cleans his face with his mouth. It shouldn’t shock him, not after where Mohinder’s mouth had been the night before, but still he cannot look away, disturbed and appalled at the sight of the other man greedily lapping up his own ejaculate.

Mohinder grins at him, wide like the Cheshire cat, pink tongue darting out to clean the corners of his mouth. His teeth shine bright and white in the dullness of the room and now it is he, not Sylar, who seems hungry and predatory. Mohinder stretches out above him, rolling Sylar onto his side so that their legs lock together as they kiss. Sylar yelps, a sound he didn’t know he could make, when Mohinder’s fist encloses his cock. Mohinder is whispering in his ear, harsh and raspy as if it is he, not Sylar, who has had his throat used so absolutely. He asks Zane what he wants, promising him things filthy and obscene and things even dirtier and more vulgar when they finally find some condoms. It is for Sylar to decide what he wants; Mohinder is offering him all, but he finds that he can’t and that he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he wants more, wants Mohinder closer, tighter, hotter, wetter, faster and _now_.

And Mohinder seems to know. He presses Sylar back against the pillows and takes control. Pleasure swirls and pools in groin, shifting between his legs and jumping in his cock and balls. Mohinder strokes him quickly, kissing him thoroughly as Sylar simply tries to breathe. It is too much and he falters, giving in too soon and too completely, the physical ecstasy he feels in his core spilling and overflowing more violently than Mohinder’s come in his mouth. His orgasm is loud and messy, overwhelming and completely disarming him. It leaves him weak and shuddering, covered in his own sweat and semen, sticky, vulnerable and tender. And all the while Mohinder is there, kissing and stroking him through it. As the pleasure wracks his body, Sylar is left wondering who truly has the upper hand.


End file.
